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Book ' -^ ^ / / 



PAVED STREETS 



/ 



PAVED STREETS 



By ELIAS LIEBERMAN / 




THE CORNHILL COMPANY 
BOSTON 






Copyright, 1917 
The CoRNHHiL Company ^ 



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DEC 3i 1317 



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TO MY WIFE 



Jl HE author acknowledges with thanks the courtesy 
of the editors of Everybody's, The Outlook, Munsey's, 
Puck, Judge, Harper's Weekly, The Designer, The 
American Hebrew, Snappy Stories, Breezy Stories, 
Town Topics, The Boston Transcript, The New 
York Times and The Sun, in granting permission 
to reprint the verses contained in this book. 



CREDO 

I believe 

That there are greater things in life 

Than life itself; 

I believe 

In climbing upward 

Even when the spent and broken thing 

I call my body 

Cries "Halt!" 

I believe 

To the last breath 

In the truths 

Which God permits me to see. 

I believe 

In fighting for them; 

In drawing. 

If need be, 

Not the bloody sword of man 

Brutal with conquest 

And drunk with power. 

But the white sword of God, 

Flaming with His truth 

And healing while it slays. 

I believe 

In my country and her destiny, 
In the great dream of her founders. 
In her place among the nations, 
In her ideals; 



X CREDO 

I believe 

That her democracy must be protected, 

Her privileges cherished, 

Her freedom defended. 

I believe 

That, humbly before the Almighty, 

But proudly before all mankind, 

We must safeguard her standard, 

The vision of her Washington, 

The martyrdom of her Lincoln, 

With the patriotic ardor 

Of the minute men 

And the boys in blue 

Of her glorious past. 

I believe 

In loyalty to my country 

Utter, irrevocable, inviolate. 

Thou, in whose sight 

A thousand years are but as yesterday 

And as a watch in the night. 

Help me 

In my frailty 

To make real 

What I believe. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

I am an American 1 

Brothers 3 

The Quest of Pierrot 4 

Soldini, Vaudeville Violinist 6 

My Shoemaker 7 

The Retort Impossible 10 

What the City Said 11 

The Play Last Night 12 

The Racing Car 13 

My Alarm Clock 14 

Rubaiyat of a Flat Dweller 15 

From a Battery Park Bench 16 

Romance in the City 17 

June: It All Depends 17 

A Peddler in the Shopping District 18 

Pastel 18 

The Pipes 19 

The Modern Omar 20 

The Fhght of a Sunbeam 21 

The Vendor of Dreams 22 

From a Bridge Car 24 

The Tower 24 

The Cathedral 24 

Dawn in the City 25 

The Theatre Crowd 25 

A Street Crossing 25 

Winter Nocturne: Subway Exit 26 

Fonetic 26 

At the Opera 27 

A Man of Letters 28 

The Nation to its Foreign-Bom 29 



xii TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

The Buzzing Fly 31 

On a Fifth Avenue Bus 32 

Invitation to the Dance 33 

A Lesson in Verse 35 

The King of Love 37 

Song of the Motor Car 40 

The Problem Play 41 

Don't Kiss Me 42 

Song of a Subway Car 44 

Coney Island on Sunday — An Impression 46 

The Children's Army 47 

Song of the Stadium 48 

Spring at the Fish Market 50 

Sholom Aleichem 52 

O. Henry: In Memoriam 53 

To Robert Louis Stevenson 56 

Edgar AUan Poe 57 

Josef Israels: In Memoriam 59 

The " Spring Poem " Satirist 61 

May Rhapsody 63 

Rosemary and Rue 64 

The Homecoming 66 

Rain Song 67 

To a Poet on His Travels 68 

The Son of an Ancient Race 71 

How Long, O Lord 73 

The Other Cheek 75 

The Banner of God 77 

Israel's Burden 79 

On the Occasion of Mr. Schiff's Birthday, Jan. 10th, 1917 81 

The Kingdom of Poland 82 

Song of the Volga Boatmen 87 

Chant of Loyalty 88 

Let there be Light 89 

Song of the U-Boat 91 

To the Statue of Liberty 92 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xiii 

Page 

The Cry of Humanity 93 

Men 95 

To War Bards 97 

Sea Waifs 98 

Where Do We Stand 99 

Demos: A Rhapsody 100 

The Light on the Mountain 104 

Caliban to the War-God 106 

Nocturne 107 



SOULS AND STREETS 



I AM AN AMERICAN 

I am an American, 

My father belongs to the Sons of the Revolution ; 

My mother, to the Colonial Dames. 

One of my ancestors pitched tea overboard in 

Boston Harbor; 
Another stood his ground with Warren; 
Another hungered with Washington at Valley 

Forge. 
My forefathers were America in the making: 
They spoke in her council halls; 
They died on her battle-fields; 
They commanded her ships ; 
They cleared her forests. 
Dawns reddened and paled. 

Stanch hearts of mine beat fast at each new star 
In the nation's flag. 

Keen eyes of mine foresaw her greater glory : 
The sweep of her seas, 
The plenty of her plains, 
The man-hives in her billion-wired cities. 
Every drop of blood in me holds a heritage of 

patriotism. 
I am proud of my past. 
I am an American. 



2 PAVED STREETS 

I am an American. 

My father was an atom of dust, 

My mother a straw in the wind, 

To His Serene Majesty. 

One of my ancestors died in the mines of Siberia; 

Another was crippled for life by twenty blows of 

the knut; 
Another was killed defending his home during 

the massacres. 
The history of my ancestors is a trail of blood 
To the palace-gate of the Great White Czar. 
But then the dream came — 
The dream of America. 
In the light of the Liberty torch 
The atom of dust became a man 
And the straw in the wind became a woman 
For the first time. 
" See," said my father, pointing to the flag that 

fluttered near, 
" That flag of stars and stripes is yours; 
It is the emblem of the promised land. 
It means, my son, the hope of humanity. 
Live for it — die for it! " 
Under the open sky of my new country I swore 

to do so; 
And every drop of blood in me will keep that vow. 
I am proud of my future. 
I am an American. 



SOULS AND STREETS 



BROTHERS 

Noon in the park ... A tropic sun 

Dazzles with light and chokes with heat. 
Sleepers about you . . . Notice one 

Stretching his length on a wooden seat. 
His face is blotched and puffy and seared, 

Sweat drips from the clammy skin; 
Flies romp on a stubble of beard, — 

A bundle of dirt with a soul therein. 

Noon at the club ... A welcome shade 

Dulls the light and cools the heat. 
Gentleman seated . . . Lemonade 

Dashed with cognac and something sweet. 
Arms dangling limply down. 

Feet tapping the polished floor . . . 
Yawning and stretching . . . No one in town 

Not a soul . . . What a beastly bore ! 



PAVED STREETS 



THE QUEST OF PIERROT 

Wistful and pleading, white of face, 

He watches the crowd — like a dream — pass 
by; 
And now he pirouettes back a pace. 

And now he stifles the ghost of a sigh. 
But though, in the glare of the bluish light. 

Myriads drift to an oubliette 
Of vistas narrowing left and right, 

He looks in vain for Pierrette. 

Tender and yearning and half afraid. 

Like a frightened fawn in a sudden shower 
Whom lightning dazes. 
He treads the mazes 
Of city streets. 
Pauses — retreats — 
Gazes amused at the burghers staid — 
Stops to admire the beauty or dower 
Fate has granted some winsome maid — 
But ever he shakes his head, ah no ! 
There is only one for Pierrot. 

And her — Pierrette — 

In a lifetime span 
Though the world forget. 
He never can. 



SOULS AND STREETS 5 

Finger on lip and saucer eyes, 

He seeks in vain where violins, 
Like prophets false of paradise. 

Glorify man in his frailties and sins; 
Midas is there with his touch of gold 

And maidens, too, with smiles firm-set 
That flash no mirth but leave one cold — 

Alas ! He finds no Pierrette. 

Drooping, he stumbles to Thespis' mart 

Where genius jingles the lilt of the times; 
Or the times, perhaps, too crass for art. 

Demand nepenthe from mummers and mimes; 
He bows his head and weeps! What though 

The swaying chorus dazzles — yet 
No charm is there for Pierrot — 

He can not find his Pierrette. 

Night — the stars — a city park — 

The shelter of boughs and a friendly seat — 
He thinks of her in the murmuring dark. 

Forgets his aches and his weary feet. 
The world will move in its trivial way. 

Will turn to dross its fume and fret 
And lose its soul — but ah ! one may 

In dreams be ever with Pierrette. 



PAVED STREETS 



SOLDINI, VAUDEVILLE VIOLINIST 

Dead men may tell no tales, but dead souls can; 

For when my turn is done, mine never fails 
To torture me with this: " Are you the man 

Whom Auer taught? Soldini! Ragging scales! 
Are you the boy whom Auer once caressed — 

His eyes so teary-soft — to whom he said, 
"Have patience, lad; through toil is genius 
blessed ; 

Your day will come?" But night has come 
instead. 
Night after night they clap Soldini — me 

Who sold his hopes for dross, his dream for pelf. 
They clap Soldini? No! His travesty, 

His ghost, perhaps, great God, but not himself. 

For gaping dolts I crucify my love. 

I syncopate the masters, beat the strings. 
Abuse my bow to please the gods above. 

The smoking gods, whose rapture stings 
Remorse to life again and drives my pride 

To penance — fool applause that lays a ban 
On hope and calls up all of me that died. 

Dead men may tell no tales but I — I can. 



SOULS AND STREETS 7 

MY SHOEMAKER 

Tap, tap, hammer; tap in cobbler time; 
Tap, tap, hammer; tap away the grime. 
Water-pail and boot-tree, shop of murk and must. 
Awl and thread and polish; tap away the dust; 
Tap away his tool and bench, the scattered leather 

scraps. 
My shoemaker is dreaming as he taps, taps, taps. 

He dreams. . . . 

It seems 
While his hand keeps time to the beat, beat, beat 

His fancy wanders free; 
It scuds to the breath of his spirit-heat 
Like the spume of a wind-tossed sea. 

Now gladly. 

Now madly, 

Now hauntingly. 

Sadly 
Over and over the infinite keys 

Of a wonderful organ he conjures from air. 
He fashions the rapturous melodies 
That, wafting above, 

On wings of fire, 

An angel choir. 
Now carol his gladness and now his despair; 
But most of all his heart's desire, 

His plea for love, 

His dream of love. . . . 



8 PAVED STREET;S 

Did not Vulcan, dull at his forge, 

Pause in his toil — listen — grow mute, 

A throb in his heart and a lump in his gorge, 
As he heard the music of Orpheus' lute? 

In the little back room (the only one 

Besides his shop) no worries lurk 
To drag his soul from its chosen fun 

And hem it in with his daily work; 
Spring dwells eternal for here is set 

The solace for toil through the countless days. 
An ancient piano, a modern spinet; 

And on this my shoemaker plays — and plays. 

He caresses her keys with toil-gnarled hands ;''^>: 
He woos her and wrings from her tinkling heart 

Murmurs of sympathy — she understands 
What love may yearn for and love impart. 

Men seek the gleam as the years plod by. 

Dawns flush and wane and centuries lapse; 
In search of the Holy Grail they hie 

Like my valorous Knight of the Leather 
Scraps; 
And who shall say that the sacred gleam, 

The quest for which makes man sublime. 
May never appear in a cobbler's dream, 

Redeeming his soul from the dust and grime? 



SOULS AND STREETS 9 

Smug with the fat of the world our souls 

Are lulled to sleep and often fail, 
As they blink their eyes at the money goals, 

To see beyond them the shining Grail; 
The gleam grows dim as the spirit lags 

And the solace of dreams may never be had 
By him who snores on his money bags. 

Though it come to the toiler with hammer and 
brad. 

Tap, tap, hammer; tap in cobbler time; 
Tap, tap, hammer; tap away the grime, 
Water-pail and boot-tree, shop of murk and must, 
Awl and thread and polish; tap away the dust; 
Tap away his stool and bench, the scattered 

leather scraps, 
My shoemaker is dreaming as he taps, taps, taps. 



10 PAVED STREETS 



THE RETORT IMPOSSIBLE 

The pronoun twins of repartee 
In Jokeland known as He and She 
Addressed each other angrily. 

Said He: " I often long for wings; 
I'm tired to death of saying things 
That merely draw your witty flings." 

Said She: " You need not say a word; 
A clothing dummy is not heard; 
Just be yourself to look absurd." 

Though through his heart her answer tore, 
This, too, like other shafts, he bore; 
The Jokesmith had not written more. 



SOULS AND STREETS 11 



WHAT THE CITY SAID 

Be not afraid, for if you are, — you die! 

Of coward lives I daily take my toll; 
And only he who bravely scorns to fly 

Perceives the god-like will of me, the soul. 
The craven whimpers, " Lo! Four million men 

And each one turns to me a face of stone." 
If he but knew, he might take heart again, 

For even they feel pity-starved, alone. 

Be not afraid; for if you are, — you die! 

The giants, ribbed of steel, that stretch their 
hands 
To grasp the stars, disdain an earth-born sigh ; 

Each mammoth pile the tomb of weaklings 
stands ! 
But if, you trembling manikin, you're bold, 

Then — open sesame — there gleams revealed 
The wealth of Ali Baba's treasure hold, 

A robber store of gems and gold concealed ! 

Be not afraid ; for if you are, — you die ! 

They call me Bagdad! Mark! The Calif's knife 
Will stroke your neck before you dare to cry 

To Allah that he spare your worthless life. 
Ah! Hear the Calif's rage, his angry stamp; 

He lowers dark at you; he means to kill. 
You laugh at him.^ He brings Aladdin's lamp. 

Salaam to you! What is my master's will? 



n PAVED STREETS 



THE PLAY LAST NIGHT 

The play last night! It might have been 
Of my own life the counterpart; 

My eyes went dim with tears unseen ; 
I heard a dirge within my heart. 

Like me, the lass upon the stage, 
Bereft of all that brightens life, 

Her faith and love, was left to wage 
Against the world a losing strife. 

Like me, she felt the gossip's tongue; 

She bowed to babbling calumny ; 
She argued with him, pleaded, clung; 

He left her, too, as one left me. 

But just before the curtain fell 

I saw her shattered fortunes mend ; 

He came to her — and all was well ; 
Alas ! Not mine the happy end ! 



SOULS AND STREETS 13 

THE RACING CAR 

Meteors whiz through the waste of space, 
Planets course through the open sky; 

All the world at a blinding pace 

Madly whirls in a cosmic race. 
And so do I. 

I bend to a rocking, swaying thing 

That hurtles on in a wake of fire; 
It croons to Death as I clutch and cling. 

But it sings the song of my heart's desire. 

The breath of life 

Is speed and strife; 

A hero's meed 

Is strife and speed; 
Though pulses hammer and senses reel. 
Ecstasy dwells in my throbbing steel. 
Men must venture and men must die; 
We are creatures of destiny, you and I. 

Masses of faces cover the bank; 

Murmurs of voices blend from afar; 
Master of lever, throttle and crank, 

I grind ahead in my lurching car. 

I speed ahead like a spirit free, 

I leap for my goal like a god of the sun ; 

The universe totters in frenzied glee 
Along with me — for the race is won ! 



14 PAVED STREETS 

MY ALARM CLOCK 

I doze. ... I drowse. ... It sings to me: 

" The dawn has flushed in the eastern sky! " 
I toss. . . . I bhnk. . . , It murmurs: 
"See! 

There is much to be done ere the sun rides high. 
There is much to be done! My knight, arise! 
Adventure beckons for bold emprise; 
And Love hires on with dream-lit eyes. 

Burr . . . ing! Ting-a-ling-ling! 

Arms and the man I sing." 

It whispers low, " A maid, perchance. 
May need a valorous knight. Advance! 
Charge the dragon ! Shiver the lance! 
Draw your sword ! The beast may hold 
Besides the maid a store of gold. 
The world is full of gems and of hearts 
And he w^ho first on the quest departs 
May have them all. 

Ting-a-ling-ling ! 
Arms and the man I sing! " 

Thus might it speak ! What it really does 
With spiteful rattle and maddening buzz 
Is this: " Again asleep, you shirk! 
Get up, get up, and go to work ! " 



SOULS AND STREETS 15 

RUBAIYAT OF A FLAT DWELLER 

Poor dub, awake! The neighbors' hoarse alarm 
Has robbed your morning doze of all its charm. 

For lo ! He sets the thing at half-past five, 
A frightful hour, to keep his job from harm. 

And though, perchance, you need not rise till eight, 
What boots the will of man against his fate? 

The waiter, misnamed dumb, will serve to shake 
With creak and buzz the sleep from any pate. 

Each morn a thousand noises seems to bring; 
And though you writhe in bed and madly cling 

To pillow, blanket, sheet, — no hope! 
Your goat is got; you can not do a thing. 

Alas, the milk is gone! No tracer shows 

Who take the stuff from you or whence it goes; 

But he who lives below and takes your tips. 
He knows about it all, he knows, he knows. 

Yes, that perverted tank you call the Jan- 
itor, who works the game to suit his plan, — 
Look not to him for help, for he, mayhap. 
Has seething milk of yours within his can. 

A janitor who scorns the vinous bough, 
A clock next door that cannot raise a row, 

A flat without a phonograph next door, — 
Ah, any rooms were Paradise enow! 



16 PAVED STREETS 



FROM A BATTERY PARK BENCH 

Giant-keeled, she flings the spray 

Lightly by in queenly scorn, 
As she passes from the bay 

Toward the mighty ocean borne. 
On to foreign lands and seas. 

Go, thou thing of steel and steam ! 
Here upon my bench at ease 

I shall follow in a dream. 

Then I shut my eyes and view 

Many queer, attractive sights — 
Waters colored turquoise blue, 

Phosphor seas on tropic nights, 
Dusky men in sandaled feet. 

Pattering their way along 
Through a narrow Eastern street 

Teeming with a noisy throng — 

Cities, castles, colonnades, 

Winding rivers, foreign sods. 
Vast cathedrals, strange arcades. 

Moldy shrines of ancient gods, 
Storied nooks of all the earth, 

See I as I take my trip — 
Passage gratis, cabin berth — 

On the park bench, phantom ship. 



SOULS AND STREETS 17 



ROMANCE IN THE CITY 

Before the dawn has paled the night's blue blur, 
Romance takes wand in hand and starts her 

quest 
Like Ariel at Prospero's behest 

To seek for hearts where men and women stir. 

And no man knows the subtle trick thereof, 
But when she halts a lad upon the street 
And smiles at him, his heart begins to beat 

A million songs whose mad refrain is love. 



JUNE: IT ALL DEPENDS 

(A reversible rime) 



glee 
woe 



Thy ^ ' . , > winds are wild with { 
•^ [ humid j ( 

™, ( brilliant ) , . f gay ) .., j mirth 

Tl'y t swollen 1;'"'^ ^'^ \ dull \ "'"^ i dread 

stay with me 



O June, forever ^ „ 

( irom me go 

,,, 1 J. i sing thy birth 

1 11 tune my lyre to < .1,1. , 1 
( wish thee dead 



18 PAVED STREETS 



A PEDDLER IN THE SHOPPING 
DISTRICT 

For hours you stand and watch the crowd, pell- 
mell 

Go bustling by. No call for buttons, laces! 

Why don't you scan those rigid, weary faces? 
They long for peace, but that you cannot sell ! 



PASTEL 

Autumn leaves in russet and brown. 

Autumn leaves in red and gold; 
The wind is shaking them trembling down 

Dank with fog and chilled with cold. 

Little mounds on the wind-swept heath, 

Little mounds of russet and red ; 
The ghost of a sigh and a hero's wreath 

For the Belgian lads whom the wind mourns 
dead. 



SOULS AND STREETS 19 

THE PIPES 

(As Poe might have jingled it) 

Hear the knocking on the pipes ! 
Frigid pipes! 

With what agonies of terror 
Now their metal presence gripes ! 
Hear the tenants beating, beating. 
Begging for a little heating 

From the pipes; 
Hear them beating and entreating 
For a scanty dole of heating 

Bought and paid for, 

Stopped and stayed for; 
But the ghoul who lives below 

And who battens on the tips 
Listens calmly to the cadence 

As it rises and it dips. 
And he doesn't care a rapping 
For the anxious tenants' tapping 

On the pipes, pipes, pipes! 
How he laughs. 
How he chaffs. 

As he keeps time, time 

In a merry Runic rhyme 
To the tintinabulations that in vain insistence 
beat 

For our rightful share of heat; 



20 PAVED STREETS 

To the discords as they scream 
For our frugal meed of steam 
From the pipes, pipes, pipes, pipes, 

Pipes, pipes, pipes — 
From the icy-hearted monster 
And his pipes ! 



THE MODERN OMAR 

L'Allegro: Midnight 

A milUon hghts flare up. . . . You seem di- 
vine. . . . 
Prismatic colors flood your fragile grace; 
Aurora crowns your hair and warms your 
face. 
Another glass ! The world and you are mine ! 



Il Penseroso: The Morning After 

Alas ! The Song of Songs was never meant 
For dolts like me with souls and feet of clay ; 
Next time it lures me on, I'll turn away. 

Some copper coins are left; the gold is spent. 



SOULS AND STREETS 21 

THE FLIGHT OF A SUNBEAM 

I saw you throbbing, 

On mischief bent, 

As away you went, 
Brilliantly bobbing. 

Your dance beguiling 

A little child 

With antics wild, 
He gurgled, smiling. 

Flashing and flying 

On dress parade, 

You sought a maid 
And eased her sighing. 

Glancing and gleaming' 

Athwart a youth. 

He glimpsed a truth 
Which set him dreaming. 

Dazzling and whisking 

Before a mule. 

The solemn fool 
Kicked heels a frisking ! 

Gracefully veering, 

You charmed a sage 

To write a page 
Of humor cheering. 



22 PAVED STREETS 

And gleefully springing 
Back to your skies, 
You gladdened my eyes 

And left me singing! 



THE VENDOR OF DREAMS 

" Tf there were dreams to sell! " — Beddoes 

Garbed in a motley suit. 

Waving a bladder of air, 
And crowned with a cap and bells, 

He looms in the thoroughfare; 
Enveloped in phosphor fire. 

Spectrally gaunt he seems 
As he offers his wares at the curb — 

A fantastical vendor of dreams. 

" Oyez! From the storehouse of time. 

Beautiful, crystalline dreams, 
Reveries, fancies, and hopes, 

Suffused with the roseate gleams 
That play on a poet at birth 

And wimple at dawn of the day ! 
Oyez ! Ye women and men, 

Ye mortals of earth, oyez! 



SOULS AND STREETS 23 

" Here are the hopes that are dead. 

Alive in your vanished youth; 
The glorious rule of the right, 

The radiant triumph of truth ; 
Power to do and to dare 

Free to the weaklings of earth; 
Ambition attained at a bound — 

Dreams of a fabulous w orth ! 

" Health for the tottering frame, 

Blood for the cheek that is pale, 
Innocence, freshness of heart, 

The fountain of youth is for sale! 
Love for the maid who is spurned. 

Relief for a sob or a sigh ; 
I am a vendor of dreams — 

Buy! Buy! Buy!" 



24 PAVED STREETS 



FROM A BRIDGE CAR 

River inscrutable, river mysterious, 

Mornings or evenings, in gray skies or blue, 

Thousands of toilers in gay mood or serious, 
Workward and homeward have gazed upon you. 

Swirling or sluggish, but ever inscrutable, 
Sparkling or oily, but never the same ; 

You, like the city, mysterious, mutable, 

Tremble with passions which no one can name. 



THE TOWER 

A magic symbol urging goals unwon, 
'Round which the rushing shadow falls; 
There profit lures, dreams dance, ambition 
calls, — 

Bagdad, Golconda, Camelot in one. 



THE CATHEDRAL 

A vault of scattered stars is overhead ; 

And, reaching hands of stone for stellar fires, 
The wingless monuments of man's desires 

Seem darting up — but cling to earth instead. 



SOULS AND STREETS 25 



DAWN IN THE CITY 

A morning zephyr lifts the screen of gray 
That hides the stage and, like a show- 
man shrewd, 
He sets the light so that the prologue, viewed 

In rose, contrasts the garish acts of day. 



THE THEATRE CROWD 

Oblivion or life? Both youth and age 

Pass brilliant-eyed within the playhouse door; 
And from it turn with echoed laughter; or 

In pensive mood, if life had crossed the stage. 



A STREET CROSSING 

Like hunted game, now darting here, now there, 
They cross in haste the traffic-glutted street; 
Amidst the maze of cars and cabs their feet 

Go pitter-patter, hasting ever — where? 



26 PAVED STREETS 



WINTER NOCTURNE: SUBWAY EXIT 

From underground come creeping forth the 
gnomes 
Who toiled by day to spin the cloth of gold 
On many looms. Anon, a gust of cold 

Attacks the rout and sweeps them to their homes. 



FONETIC 

A wise philosopher obtained 

His doctorate degree. 
And being wise, he rendered it 

In language somewhat free: 
Instead of writing Ph. D — 

To all persuasion deaf, 
He used the phonic substitute, 

And signed himself D. F. 



SOULS AND STREETS 27 



AT THE OPERA 

Are you the lass I used to know — 

My barefoot girl of aeons past; 
My nut-brown maid of long ago? 

Can this be you and I — miscast? 
In decollete, and grandly pale — 

It seems so queer ! But he that gave 
The gems you wear covdd hardly fail. 

A princess you, and I — a knave. 

The music thrills you. Violins 

With muted strings can plead so well ! 
You look at me — the charm begins 

To work — may God prolong the spell! 
Crescendo now my throbbing heart 

Would madly blot what happened since ! 
I seem to play my rightful part, 

A princess you, and I — a prince. 

The music dies ; the lights flare up ; 

A stranger helps you with your cloak; 
My lips have touched the bitter cup; 

I drain it, lees and all — I choke ! 
The strains had led my wits astray, 

They spun a dream for me, your slave; 
But fate ordains another way, — 

A princess you, and I — a knave. 



28 PAVED STREETS 



A MAN OF LETTERS 

When Clegg was young, the first degree 
He learned to blab was A. B. C. 

In adolescence, formally, 

A college tagged on him A. B. 

Another parchment came his way 
That dubbed the stoHd grind M. A. 

But on he plugged; oh, on plugged he. 
Until he nabbed the Ph. D. 

In dreams he now began to see 
An honorary LL. D. 

But then, alas ! The end is sad, 
For poor old Clegg went raving mad. 

Upon the walls incessantly 

He scribbles Clegg and X. Y. Z. 

And P. D. Q. and Q. E. D. 

A literal calamity. 

The keepers say he aims to get 
A corner on the alphabet. 



SOULS AND STREETS 29 



THE NATION TO ITS FOREIGN-BORN 

Make thee my knight f My knights are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love. 

Tennyson. 

Front face! Are you prepared to do your part? 

Come here and tell me so; I know you can. 
Stand straight and answer squarely, heart to 
heart ; 

You're not a grain of dust to step on, man! 
Look up ! The truth ! I mean to try you out 

When passion's heat is white, to search you 
through 
And see if anywhere there lives a doubt 

To whom and where your loyalty is due. 

You're stanchly true? Then breathe a holy vow 

That, come what may, your soul will cling to 
me. 
I sheltered you, when first you came, and, now, 

I want your faith and deeds, if need there be. 
But if your thoughts go fondly back to where, 

A subject once, you ate your potted meat. 
Or where you scraped and bowed to kings, why 
there 

You must return. You cannot stand white heat. 



30 PAVED STREETS 

There is no middle course for loyalty, 

And love should never waver. She who nursed 
Your brawn and brain and soul, who dubbed you 
free, 

Should stand alone in love, in duty first. 
All this you stand resolved to pledge anew? 

You call to witness Him that rules above? 
Then rise. Sir Knight, my future rests on you, 

On all your utter faith, your utter love! 



SOULS AND STREETS 31 



THE BUZZING FLY 

Buzz, buzz, 

Low, high. 
How I hate you, 

Little fly! 
Buzz, buzz. 

No rest; 
How I loathe you, 

Little pest! 

Buzz, buzz, 

So plain, 
Ever at it 

On the pane. 
Swipe! I have you! 

No? Too bad! 
Missed again? 

I'm going mad! 

Buzz, buzz, 

No peace; 
Will that buzzing 

Never cease? 
Now I've caught you ! 

No ! Too spry ! 
Wait a bit. 

You nasty fly ! 



32 PAVED STREETS 

Buzz, buzz, 
Fills my brain. 

Swat! 

What? 

Broken pane ! 



ON A FIFTH AVENUE BUS 

Close-boarded, bar-crossed windows — blind fa- 
cades ! 
I cannot look within, but envy sees 
A world that is not mine and cushioned ease 

I may not share . . . all, all behind those shades. 

Two maidens pure as dawn ascend the bus . . . 

And earth reels from me . . . Airily I soar . . . 

The one is laughing Youth forevermore; 
The other. Wonder, wide-eyed, tremulous. 

Wild magic haunts the breeze, the open sky! 

I, too, am rich; I smell the greening sod; 

I lilt a song of soul-content to God; 
And on we travel . . . Wonder, Youth and I. 



SOULS AND STREETS 33 



INVITATION TO THE DANCE 

Time: An autumn day 
Scene: A wood 

Characters:|tf.'"f\™d 
(A little leaf 

THE WIND (boldly) : 

What maiden fancies make you blush 
This pretty red? 

THE LEAF (reprovingly) : 
You rudeness, hush ! 

THE WIND (boisterously) : 

With dainty sighs I will caress 
Your crimson cheeks. 

THE LEAF (timorously) : 
What brazenness ! 

THE WIND (sarcastically): 

You're too demure! Will you, perchance. 
Come off your perch and try — a dance? 

THE LEAF (shuddering) : 

A dance? Oh, no. Excuse me, please, 
I'm rather weak about the knees; 
I'm poor at tangoing, I fear. 



34 PAVED STREETS 

THE WIND (suavely) : 

I'll teach you well, my trembling dear. 

THE LEAF (fluttering) : 

Oh, sir! Be kind enough to wait! 

THE WIND (blustering) : 

Regrets ! I never hesitate. 

Let's one-step then — come on — I'll blow 

Your scruples to the — 

THE LEAF (falling) : 
Wind, I go! 



SOULS AND STREETS 35 



A LESSON IN VERSE 

The editors gave B. A. Hack 
Five cents a word. He smote 

His hand upon his noble knob 
And this is what he wrote : — 

" Fain would the horned moon eftsoons 

Dart out beyond the cloud. 
Fain would its pointed points retreat 

Astern the opal shroud, 
While qui V 'ring on the heaving sea 

The falling moonbeams fall, 
And shiv'ring on the rolling deep. 

Remember Neptune's call." 

But when the editors resolved 
To pay him for the thought. 

The manuscripts of B. A. Hack 
A different message brought : — 

" A horned moon, 

A hind'ring cloud, 
A mad retreat 

Astern the shroud; 
On heaving seas 

The moonbeams fall 
And shiv'ring list 

To Triton's call." 



PAVED STREETS 

A skillful master of his art, 

He later, with a frown, 
Tore up his first attempt and said 

He ought to " boil it down." 

For, after all, the whole blamed thing, 

He thought in cynic glee, 
Can best be said — ah, noble head! — 

" The moon shone on the sea." 



SOULS AND STREETS 37 



THE KING OF LOVE 

Dedicated to Dr. Stanton Coit, founder of the Uni- 
versity Settlement, Rivington and Eldridge streets, 
the first settlement in America 

The street is all a- throb with sleepless life. 

There beats upon the ear a mad refrain 

Of peddlers hawking wares. The very lights 

Of Rivington are blatant as the cries 

That blend into the thunder of the cars. 

A haggling crone berates a bearded Job 

Who curses loud and often at his fate 

Before he takes the stinted dole she gives. 

As if to mock the pair, a joyous strain, 

The lilting Czardas, filters through the hum 

From out a hall where tw^o have plighted troth. 

Amid the rattle and the clamor of their lives 

A golden strand had slipped the loom of Fate. 

A boy is chanting ballads on the street 

And round about him gapes the idle throng 

Their mission stayed — to listen and to yearn 

For luring dreams of unattained desires, 

For life to fill the veins of still-born hopes. 

A Babel of confusions fills the air, 

The senses riot in a Bacchanal 

Of sights and sounds, — a Bagdad of the brain. 



38 PAVED STREETS 

And through the grimy ruck there passes one 

Who sniffs his way along in open scorn. 

His hands are white although his heart is small; 

His cheeks are red although his soul is pale; 

And thus he drawls as on he minces by: 

" What sweating, grasping humans — these I see. 

What sordid trade, what guile, what warped ideals. 

What gulfs Ijetween these lowly forms and me, 

The scion of the culture of the world, 

The master of the learning of the schools ; 

'Twixt them who grovel at the carts and me. 

The final product of the rolling centuries; 

How queer of garb and mien and speech they are, 

I'll stoop to them and lift them to myself." 

But on the thunder of the traffic booms along. 

The plodding peddlers shudder at his touch; 

The weary mothers crooning to their babes 

Are sightless to his offer and his hand; 

The children mock his very daintiness; 

And Rivington, uproarious and wild. 

In laughter, moaning, singing, sobs, — ignores 

The final product of the rolling centuries. 

" Ungrateful dolts," he scoffs, " their coarseness 

Cannot grasp the higher things in Life, 

Nor can it feel the nobler strain in me." 

And now there comes along the crowded street 
Another — humble, modest, gentle- voiced, 
And from his eyes there gleams the flame of love : 
" Oh, brothers, look above," he mildly says. 



SOULS AND STREETS 39 

" The world is full of beauty, full of light, 

And life is filled with tender harmonies. 

The laughter born of fever, brethren, cease. 

And cease the silent crying of the heart. 

For yesterday is past; to-morrow lives for you! " 

And lo ! By him a miracle is wrought : 

The thunder of the traffic dies away, 

The plodding peddlers straighten at his touch; 

The weary mothers crooning to their babes. 

Extend them to the lull of his caress; 

And Rivington, uproarious and wild 

In laughter, moaning, singing, sobs — acclaims 

The humble worker, reigning king of Love. 



40 PAVED STREETS 



SONG OF THE MOTOR CAR 

A long, lean stretch of a grayish road 

For a lurching thing of steel; 
A vanishing strip of dust to the goad 

Of each swift pneumatic wheel. 
It speeds from Eternity straight through Space 

To a throttle's tug and strain, 
And hurtling along at a maddening pace 

Repeats in a frenzied refrain : 

"Speed! 

Through a rushing wind in the dark of night, 

With the glare ahead of a giant light ; 

Though your throat is choked with the clots of 

dust. 
Till I seem to fly over earth's dun crust, 

I demand as my meed 

Irresistible speed! " 

A man bespattered with dirt and grime 

Bends over intent on his goal. 
He hearkens the beat of its thunderous time 

Controlling its impulse — its soul. 
His heart beats loud and his breath comes fast, 

In the throes of a joyous pain; 
The woods and the houses are scurrying past. 

As it grinds in a wild refrain : 



SOULS AND STREETS 41 

" Speed ! 

While my limbs are tense with a pulsing might, 
Though my pace outstrip your human sight, 
For the joy there is in it — the ecstasy lent, 
Till my terrible force is completely spent, 

I demand as my meed 

Irresistible speed! " 



THE PROBLEM PLAY 

I heard the hero's labored talk. 

His fervent declamation; 
I saw him pace the stage, and walk 

Its length in perturbation. 
Would she leave him, or he leave her? 

Had he the right to marry? 
Would both of them to part demur? 

Was it not wrong to tarry? 

The critic with the sunken eye 

Explained the situation. 
His forehead bulged; a cultured sigh 

Showed cultured exaltation. 
A listless hearer at his side. 

Of intellect far baser, 
Exclaimed, " The problem's not denied. 

But where on earth's the play, sir? " 



42 PAVED STREETS 



DON'T KISS ME 

John Thompson was a citizen 

Of credit and renown 
But when a grippe germ entered him 

It brought John Thompson down. 

With febrifuge and germicide 

And heahng herbs full score 
He fought the vicious little beast 

But still it vexed him sore. 

And as he lay upon his cot 

He heard his doctor tell 
" You may not kiss nor osculate 

Nor buss, till you are well." 

" Nay, can you, John," the doctor asked, 
" Though this must cause you pain. 

Can you forego the fond embrace 
Of Mistress Mary Jane? " 

John Thompson was a cautious man, 

He knew the ways of germs. 
How fast they multiply and breed. 

The cruel, septic worms! 



SOULS AND STREETS 43 

Bold resolution fired his eyes, 

He spoke as doth a man : 
" When Duty whispers low, ' Thou must,' 

The youth replies, ' I can! ' " 

She came not in the rosy dawn. 

She did not come at noon ; 
His heart leaped up when in the eve, 

He heard her dainty shoon. 

Compassion filmed her azure orbs. 

Her heart beat fast for fear; 
But ere she swooped on him with love, 

He murmured in her ear: 

" Don't kiss me, darling Mary Jane, 

A foe is armed to kill us, 
The germ that bideth on my lips, 

The dreaded grippe bacillus. 

Don't kiss me, darling Mary Jane," 

With gestures epileptic, 
The swain implored his darling lass, 

" Until I'm antiseptic." 

And thus they bode till he was well, 

As prophylaxis fated; 
Unhugged, unbussed, unkissed, unstrung, 

Nonplussed, unosculated. 



44 PAVED STREETS 



SONG OF A SUBWAY CAR 

" A subway car was grinding along 
From stop to stop with a toil-worn throng; 
It growled as it sped through the narrow lane 
A dolorous tale to a dull refrain, 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun; 
To an often-repeated dull refrain. 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun. . . . 

" I speed through a sinuous vault underground, 
Columned and pillared, rock-ribbed and round; 
And this is the song of my innermost ken, 
A song of women and sitting men, 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun. . . . 

" A woman hangs by a strap and reels, 

A feverish flush her pallor conceals; 

She is weary with working, faint — but then 

Nothing is seen by my sitting men. 

My newspaper-staring, sitting men, 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun. . . . 

" I stop with a jerk and the sweating guards 
Breast the stream that nothing retards; 
Out with 'em, in with 'em, off again. 
Shop-girls jostled and sitting men, 
Dull and expressionless sitting men, 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun. . . . 



SOULS AND STREETS 45 

" I speed through a sinuous vault underground. 

Columned and pillared, rock-ribbed and round; 

A thing of steel, I strain and I sway, 

I am hollow and heartless but better than they — 

My rows of vacuous, sitting men, 

My newspaper-blinded, sitting men. 

De-de-dun, de-de-dun, ..." 



46 PAVED STREETS 



CONEY ISLAND ON SUNDAY— AN 
IMPRESSION 

Pleasure parading with fife and drum, 

Boom jig boom, boom jig boom! 
Won't you be merry, stranger? Come! 

Boom jig boom, boom jig boom! 
Forget the troubles you have to tell 
On a bumpty bump or a carousel; 
Crooked or straight or tall or thin. 
Every one is a harlequin. 
Laughter is tipsy; joy is drunk. 
The treasure of Captain Kidd is sunk 
Deep in the wells of a maiden's eyes; 
The Golden Fleece of Jason lies 
Ready to seize in her throbbing heart; 
Argonaut bold from shop and mart, 
Reel into step for the golden quest 
And be as giddy as all the rest. 

Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. 
We should worry where we're at ! 

Whoop-de-doo, whoop-de-doo ! 
I'm silly myself, but so are you ! 



SOULS AND STREETS 47 



THE CHILDREN'S ARMY 

No tune of tootling fife, 

No beat of the rolling drum. 
And yet with the thrill of life 

The hordes of children come. 
Freckled and chubby and lean, 

Indifferent, good and bad, 
Bedraggled and dirty and clean. 

Richly and poorly clad, 
They come on toddling feet 

To the schoolliouse door ahead ; 
The neighboring alley and street 

Resound to the infant tread. 
Children of those who came 

To the land of the promising West, 
Foreign of face and name. 

Are shoulder to shoulder pressed 
With the youth of the native land 

In the quest for truth and light, 
As the valorous little band 

Trudges to left and right. 
Creed and color and race 

Unite from the ends of the earth, 
Blending each noble trace 

In the pride of a glorious birth. 
Race and hate and the past 

Fuse in a melting heat 



48 PAVED STREETS 

As the little hearts beat fast 
To the stir of a common beat. 

A fresher brawn and brain 

For the stock which the fates destroy 

Belong to the cosmic strain 
Of American girl and boy. 



SONG OF THE STADIUM 

{At the dedication of the stadium of the City College, 
May 29, 1915) 

The song of youth is calling us, 

The pipe of Pan enthralling us — 
We hear the stirring echoes of a trumpet blast. 

It banishes the clod in us, 

It wakes the pagan god in us — 
We follow, follow, follow, for the heart beats fast! 

The gates are open, open wide, 

And through them sweeps a steady tide 

Of youth — of youth and life; 
Their eyes are clear as woodland springs, 
Their sinews taut as arrow strings, 

Prepared for mimic strife. 



SOULS AND STREETS 49 

In Rome each gladiator slave 
A grim salute to Caesar gave: 

" Before I die, I hail you! " 
Your youth, O proud Metropolis, 
Had rather pledge you loud with this: 

" Your sons shall never fail you! 

" We'll strive for you with might and main, 
We'll give you zeal of heart and brain. 

The uttermost we can ; 
Your need shall be a rolling drum — 
Whene'er you want us, we will come! 

We pledge you to a man! " 

The song of youth is calling us. 

The pipe of Pan enthralling us — 
We hear the stirring echoes of a trumpet blast; 

It banishes the clod in us. 

It wakes the pagan god in us — 
We follow, follow, follow, for the heart beats fast! 



50 PAVED STREETS 



SPRING AT THE FISH MARKET 

Scene: Under the Williamsburg Bridge, lower 
East Side 

Can it be that spring is stirring in the jostle of the 

mart, 
Through the clamor and the clatter at the bearded 

huckster's cart, 
Heard amid the dinning bicker of the women as 

they pass, 
Felt amidst the noise and bustle of the densely 

moving mass? 
Can it be that spring is present, softly breathing 

to the throng 
All the world-old passion music of a new world 

waking song. 

Of a winter loosened river 

Onward rushing merrily; 
Of the countryside a-quiver 

With a vernal ecstasy; 
Of the lazy dreams a-fleeting 

Through an open breezy sky, 
Of the human hearts a-beating 

That the time of joy is nigh! 



SOULS AND STREETS 51 

Strange it is, but in the jangle of the clanking 
metal scales, 

In the wearisome confusion of a hundred hurried 
sales. 

Wanders the enchanting goddess from the fields 
of oversea, 

And her voice is sweetest music as she whispers 
tenderly 

To the huddled men and women of the home- 
stead vale and stream. 

Conjuring a dear illusion with the pigments of a 
dream. 

Of a foreign hamlet lying 

Near a grassy green expanse; 
Of a faintly tremored sighing 

In a wood of old romance; 
Of a land where life was duty 

To an emperor or king — 
Reawakened to the beauty 

Of a long-forgotten spring ! 



52 PAVED STREETS 



SHOLOM ALEICHEM 

In Memoriam 

Peace be with you, gentle scrivener. 
You who make the weary laugh. 

Though their hacks are sorely burdened, 
And they trudge with wander-staff. 

Tears for you? No friend to sorrow 

Is an author evermore 
Who can place a merry twinkle 

Where a tear had gleamed before. 

Glad you lived and glad you left us. 

In your volumes filled with mirth 
Lives a never-failing solace 

For the misery of earth. 

Let us think of you with gladness ; 

Let us write of you with cheer; 
For your monument — a people 

Laughing, laughing all the year. 



SOULS AND STREETS 53 

O. HENRY: IN MEMORIAM 

(Died June 5, 1910) 

In the twilight of the city, as I dreamed, as I 
dreamed, 
Tangled shadows fell fantastic on the ever- 
pulsing street, 
Little lights began to glimmer through the filmy 
veil of night 
And I knew that work had ended by the home- 
ward-turning feet. 
Then a tide of men and women rolled before me 
from the west, 
Breaking over into houses, into hall and alley 
swirled; 
Back from shop and store and work-room to the 
refuge of the home; 
Through the sluices of the city beat the power 
of the world. 

And I wished I had his vision — he who saw and 
understood. 
As he watched the men and women on the stage 
of everyday, 
All the wrangling and the toiling and the bungling 
of the cast, 
While it potters through the seons in the great 
Creation Play. 



54 PAVED STREETS 

How I longed to sense the meaning of the God 
behind it all, 
Of the spirit as it brightens through the coars- 
est human flesh, 
Of the music, sweetly hidden in the roaring city 
din. 
Of the single purpose showing in the tangle of 
the mesh. 

Far below me boomed the thunder and the tidal 
wave beat high. 
On its crest I saw the mummers of the passing 
comedy ; 
Shopgirls, idlers, peddlers, salesmen, errand-boys 
with lagging feet. 
Kind and sad and hostile faces in the swelling 
human sea. 
And in each I felt a story worthy of the master's 
skill. 
Sensed the presence of the passions that control 
the human breast, 
Knew an epic lived within them, dumbly waiting 
to be told. 
But a mind that knew the meaning slept in its 
eternal rest. 

What a world he left behind him, what a web of 
wonder tales, 
Fact and fiction subtly woven on the spinning 
wheel of Truth ! 



SOULS AND STREETS 55 

How he caught the key of hving in the noises of 
the town, 
Major music, minor dirges, rhapsodies of Age 
and Youth ! 
In the twihght of the city, as I dreamed, as I 
dreamed. 
Watching that eternal drama in the ever- 
pulsing street. 
All about me seemed to murmur of the master 
passed away, 
And his requiem was sounded in the city's fever 
beat. 



56 PAVED STREETS 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

I have twisted my phrases and words, 

In a spirit that pries and destroys, 
As children who potter and prod 

To solve their mechanical toys; 
Till, tired at my arabesque turns. 

My pen sputters back at my brain. 
I hungrily gaze at my screed, 

But the Critic within me cries, " Vain! " 

In the dark of my doubt, as I toil, 

Like one melting dross in a mould, 
To banish my base-flowing slag 

And change it, as you did, to gold; 
I conjure Samoa, the isle 

Where your tomb meets the breeze of the sea; 
Tusitala, my dearly beloved, 

I turn to you, yearning my plea: 

Defend me from forfeiting Hope, 

From fashioning wares for the mart; 
Inspire me, my master, to write 

With the red of the blood of my heart. 
In the darkness that comes to us all. 

When our world is a Stygian night, 
When we hesitate, stumble and reel, 

O lend me, my brother, thy light ! 



SOULS AND STREETS 57 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

And wan with listless watching, Hecate 
Beheld a student in a chamber dim 

Invoke the bard. It was a votary 

Whose chant to strains of hidden cherubim 

Came low and mournful through the moonlit air 

To echo in the caves of blind Despair. 

" Awake, thou matchless bard of Shadowland! 

Of women wondrous beautiful, but pale, 
Of dreams alive; of cities on a strand, 

Illumed by phosphor seas; of Woe and Wail; 
Divine musician, rend the earth and shake 
Thy deathly slumber off — Awake ! Awake ! 

" I long to hear the song of lost Lenore, 

In haunting rhymes and liquid measures sung, 

To sense thy mighty soul in grief outpour 
A wild lament for her who died so young. 

I bid that Death his gruesome work unmake, 

I bid thee rise to Life — Awake ! Awake ! 

" I crave the tremor of thy breathing lyre 
That mourns eternally for Doom and Sin, 

That sings of keen regret and vain desire 
As softly sweet as muted violin. 

Defy the sway of haughty Death and take 

Thy place with us again — Awake ! Awake ! 



58 • PAVED STREETS 

" A longing mad I feel my soul consume 

To wander forth with thee, where brooding 
dwell 

Thy dear ones, Eulalie and Ulalume; 
Thy loved ones, Elinor and Annabel. 

In suppliant tone for mine and their sweet sake 

I rouse thee from thy sleep — Awake! Awake!" 

But wan with listless watching, Hecate 

Beheld the student beat his troubled breast. 

For thus a vagrant wind that wandered free 
With plaintive tone into his ear confessed, 

An ancient wind that knew the days of yore, 

" The bard you seek shall meet you — never- 
more." 



SOULS AND STREETS 59 

JOSEF ISRAELS: IN MEMORIAM 

{182^-1911) 

When the fisher-folk of the Netherland coast 

On perilous cruises sped, 
When the howling wind and the swirling foam 

A message of danger read — 
There was one to measure the dread of the sea 

For the helpless women then, 
Whose bread was found on the crest of the wave 

By the sturdy fishermen. 

There was one to read the cry of the heart, 

As it sobbed to the lonely stone, 
On the mound of the man who came no more, 

Who left her all alone — 
Alone to the wind and the sea and the storm 

That had claimed their murderous fill ; 
Alone to the break of the taunting deep 

And a cottage, void and still. 

There was one to sound the plumb of despair 

In the wandering martyr race 
That flies with the wind in the fearful round 

Of an everlasting chase; 
To note the patient shoulder shrug, 

The pathos of mind and eye, 
In the form of the man with the mortal wounds. 

Who yet disdains to die. 



60 PAVED STREETS 

Be good to the soul of the master, Lord, 

Who limned with a deathless hand, 
The woes of the men whose mettle you try ■ 

The waifs of the sea and the land. 
Be good to his artist soul, O Lord, 

For he ate of the bread of tears 
And drank from the bitter cup of those 

Who count the leaden years. 



SOULS AND STREETS 61 

THE " SPRING POEM " SATIRIST 

Dedicated to Thomas R. Ybarra 

Ybarra spilled a can of ink 

Upon a budding little leaf 
And watched the tiny body shrink 
With grief. 

A poet passed, and pitying 

The victim of his brother's spleen. 
Wept over it, and lo ! — the thing 
Turned green! 

Ybarra threw a surly blot 

Across a cloudless. May time sky 
And jeered to see the frowning spot 
Grow dry. 

The poet moaned the base assault 
As from his faithful lyre he drew 
Such plaintive sobs that soon the vault 
Turned blue ! 

Ybarra caught a vagrant breeze. 
In which he jabbed a cruel pen 
To see if Zephyrs die with ease, 
But then 



62 PAVED STREETS 

The poet healed the smarting breast 
With balsam from a vernal spray 
So well, it freshened toward the West 
Away. 

Now, what's the use, Ybarra, dear, 

Of being churlish? Come and sing 
Like all the rest of us who cheer 
" To Spring! " 



SOULS AND STREETS 63 

MAY RHAPSODY 

Springtime has come with her whispering glad- 
ness 
Susurrant Zephyrs sighing of bloom. 
Yielding me ecstasies kin unto madness, 
Flambeaux of incense a heart to consume; 
Breathing of happiness. 
Laughing with happiness. 
Fragrant and rosy and banishing gloom. 

Fresh as the Dawn that in primitive glory 

Blushed with affright at the vision of Man, 
Dewy as morn in Arthurian story. 

Brimming with life as when Knighthood began. 
Bubbling with merriment, 
Bounding with merriment. 
Springtime advances to linger a span. 

Over her tresses a chaplet of flowers 

Carelessly twined and a trifle askew, 
Sprinkled with drops of her opulent showers 
Or wet with the glittering touch of the dew; 
Wondrously beautiful. 
Wild-eyed and beautiful. 
Trembling with joy at a World that is new. 



64 PAVED STREETS 

Love is her boon to the soul-weary mortal, 

Love but a dream-enthralled being may know, 
Wafting him back to the Paradise Portal, 
Lending him pinions to rise over Woe; 
Scattering violets, 
Pansies and violets. 
Faint with delights of a sweet Long-Ago. 



ROSEMARY AND RUE 

The leaves have fallen. Overhead 

The ghostly trees are bare; 
In brown and red, on lowly bed 

A clan is sleeping there. 
Perchance the solitary leaf 

That flutters in the blast 
Recalls in quiverings of grief 

The brilliant summer passed. 

The song of roses calls in vain 
And leaves for me and you 

A haunting, sober, sweet refrain 
Of rosemary and rue. 

Of rue and rosemary, my love, 
Of rosemary and rue. 



SOULS AND STREETS 65 

In vain for mortal heart and way 

The fervent pHghted vow! 
The verdant spray of yesterday 

Is sere and withered now. 
Perhaps the motley, fallen rout 

Remembers how, in spring, 
It rustled promises devout 

Unto the branch to cling. 

And now the song of wind and rain 

Is bringing me and you 
A haunting, sober, sweet refrain 

Of rosemary and rue. 
Of rue and rosemary, my love. 

Of rosemary and rue. 



PAVED STREETS 



THE HOMECOMING 

I roam the highways over and over 

For the wisp of a gleam that leads me; 
I trample the dust in the noon-day sun 

And call — but it never heeds me; 
I follow the gold to the slumbering west 

Where the road and the sky arch play. 
But the wisp of a dream on the border line 

Eludes me — it will not stay. 

For a man may fail to find the trail- 
That leads to his heart's desire, 

But on he must through mud and dust 
From dawn to evening fire. 

But who is this in the highway standing. 

She with the eyes that call me? 
I am tired of the road, the sinuous road, 

Her laughing eyes enthrall me. 
I long for the feel of her cooling hand 

On my hair and my throbbing brow; 
Then take my love, O wife of my dreams, 

I would cease my wandering now. 

For we can not fail to find the trail 
That leads to our heart's desire, 

If love as guide with us abide 
From dawn to evening fire. 



SOULS AND STREETS 67 



RAIN SONG 

Many a time in the aeons past 
I swished to the whip of the northern blast; 
I romped in the sleet and rejoiced in the hail, 
Fled with the whirlwind and danced with the gale. 

Gently I fell to the crooning springs, 
Benison bringing on watery wings; 
Soft as the hand of a mother caressing 
I fondled the earth and gave it my blessing. 

Now as I fall, though I patter of sorrow, 
I whisper the hope of a new tomorrow. 
Every drop of me reaching the sod 
Carries the grace and the pity of God. 



68 PAVED STREETS 



TO A POET ON HIS TRAVELS 

Gently, Wind, 

Temper thy stroke; 
Shake the leaves 

On the giant oak; 
But spare the bard 

In the threadbare cloak. 

Softly, Rain, 

Fall on the heath ; 
Be kind to the wayfaring 

Men beneath; 
And most to a lad 

With a poet's wreath. 

Guide him, Moon, 
With a friendly ray. 

When he wanders at night 
Lilting a lay. 

To find in the dark 
His chosen way. 

Grant him. Wood, 

In thy arbors dim. 
Shelter in peril 

Of life or limb; 
The love of a people 

He bears with him. 



AN ANCIENT RACE 



THE SON OF AN ANCIENT RACE 

Suggested by a painting of the same name, the work 
of Josef Israels, in the Rijks Museum, Amster- 
dam,. 

A gas-lit gloom oppresses the shop, 

The air is heated and stale ; 
Persistent machines without a stop 

Rehearse a monotonous tale. 
Before his task in a reverie, 

As the wheels drone on apace, 
There pauses a scion of destiny. 

The son of an ancient race. 

He dreams . . . that the Lord in the vanguard goes 

And blazes a triumph-trail 
Of woe and defeat for Israel's foes ! 

A million voices hail 
In pseans of praise the glory of God! 

A glow illumines the face 
Of the heir to the fat of the conquered sod, 

The son of an ancient race. 

And then alone through the dark, long years 

He totters with timorous tread; 
Alone, the prey of a thousand fears. 



72 PAVED STREETS 

He learns to droop his head; 
From the height of his pride he is downward 
hurled 

To reel from place to place, 
Mock of the nations and butt of the world. 

The son of an ancient race. 

The flesh pots of Egypt . . . then liberty, 

Ambition, might, disdain. 
And then ... a cycle of misery, 

A welter of blood and pain. 
Will Israel's moan at the scourge of the rod, 

As it echoes far through space. 
Some day invoke the grace of God 

For the son of an ancient race? 



AN ANCIENT RACE 73 



HOW LONG, O LORD! 

In the weary night they come to me, 

The tears that I left unshed, 
When I trudged the thorny wilderness 

With the sun-flame overhead. 
I lie awake in the friendly night. 

My soul too numb to pray. 
Enjoying the cool of its velvet black 

In the dread of the coming day. 

For the day must come and the sting of it, 

As I bend to the endless road. 
The light must come and the pain of it, — 

The bite of the lashing goad. 
But this I know as I reel along 

To the nations' hue and cry, 
A burning truth in the hand of God : 

I know that I must not die. 

They say my soul is twisted and warped. 

My ways are cringing and mean. 
That I worship the bulk of the calf of gold, 

That my hands are not white and clean; 
They say — but a thousand reasons hold 

To stalk the quarry then 
When the lust for blood is hunger-felt 

By the beast that dwells in men. 



74 PAVED STREETS 

When Kindness is taught at the end of a rope, 

And Love to the music of groans ; 
When Charity masks in a cloak of flame, 

And Mercy in falling stones, — 
What wonder the balm for the spirit fails 

When the wounds are kept so fresh 
Through countless years of active hate 

In the rack of the tortured flesh? 

I have ceased to long for the clasp of Love, 

To dream of the smile of a friend, 
I grip my trusty wander-staff 

In a journey without an end. 
My faith is strong as the primal rocks. 

And deep as my tearless woes; 
I am Job of the nations — heir of wrongs, 

But why — Jehovah knows. 



AN ANCIENT RACE 75 

THE OTHER CHEEK 

{From a Jewish standpoint) 

Songs of hate for the newly stressed! 

We who have borne the burden long 
Scorn the feverish heat and zest 

That finds a vent in poisoned song. 
Blood ye take when the foe retreats, 

Blood ye get when the foe breaks through. 
Whatever the message the drummer beats, 

It's hell for us and blood for you. 

The star of David is dyed in gore, 

Maccabee's daughters droop in shame; 
Whatever the tale the cannons roar 

For you, for us it is still the same. 
At the shrine of God we pray for you. 

We, the weakest and strongest of men; 
On the fields of death we slay for you 

Our very kin — and you slay us then. 

If we should curse you, as you deserve, 

If we should loose our burden of ire ; 
Planets would falter, suns would swerve, 

Earth be swept by volcanic fire; 
But we who crossed the Red Sea trail 

When Egypt's star began to dim 
Will live to see your hatred fail 

As Pharaoh's did when he mocked at Him. 



76 PAVED STREETS 

We who have borne the scourge of Rome 

Deem that your puny vaunts are vain; 
Eternal rocks to the angry foam. 

We weathered the proud caprice of Spain. 
Ye may wound us sore till our bleeding hearts 

Conjure death as a blessing, still 
By the law of laws your venomous darts. 

Though rankle they must, can never kill. 

God of Gideon, David and Saul, 

God of the prophet's holy tears; 
Thou who markest the sparrow's fall. 

Thou who hast led us thousands of years. 
Grant to us when they smite our cheek 

To turn the other to them and smile, 
For we shall live though our lives they seek, 

But they are dying all the while. 



AN ANCIENT RACE 77 



THE BANNER OF GOD 

This is a struggle of democracy against autocracy. 
— Theme of President Wilson's address. 

The deathless eye of Israel 

Beheld beneath the skies, 
Ash-gray with battle smoke and death, 

Another banner rise. 

And, floating high above the pall, 

That standard seemed to be 
The word of God revealed to man 

By ancient prophecy. 

" Through fire," it sang, " come follow me! 

The life Almighty gave 
Had better far go back to Him 

Than dwell in any slave." 

" Through blood-red mist," it chanted loud, 

" My soul exultant sings 
The paean of all that is to be, 

The dirge and doom of kings." 

" Beat down," it called, " whatever binds — 

Your shackles, bolts and bars. 
The dawn's pure blush is in my stripes, 

God's hope is in my stars! " 



78 PAVED STREETS 

The heart of Israel surged high 
As does the wind-blown sea; 

" My flag! " he cried, " I pledge to you 
My deathless fealty! " 



AN ANCIENT RACE 79 

ISRAEL'S BURDEN 

Eyes like balls of molten madness stare and stare 

the livelong night, 
Reading what the fancy conjures with the dawn 

of morning light. 

Wraiths of humans fleeing, fleeing . . . moaning 

an eternal " Why? " 
Plod along deserted highways under sun and 

star-lit sky. 

Fields, though seamed with many furrows, bear 
no crop for farm and town. 

Over them the death-clouds hover like a mist- 
gray mourning gown. 

Messengers of fate vibrating through the sulphur- 
laden air 

Hum their hymns of hate unending and their 
echo moans despair. 

Israel! For thee the reaper sweeps his scythe on 

hill and plain; 
His the harvest of thy children and thy tears are 

all in vain. 

Whether in thy heart be Kaiser or the call of La 

Patrie, 
Whether fighting stanch for England or the land 

that slaughters thee. 



80 PAVED STREETS 

Thine the heavy, heavy burden; thine the toll of 

lives to pay, 
Thine the martyrdom of ages; thine a night that 

knows no day. 

If thy sorrow does not touch me, if thy pangs but 

leave me cold, 
If thy oft-recurring story seems a tale too often 

told, 

If I read thy plea for succor, dull to sense what 

others bear. 
Blind to all but self and callous how my luckless 

brothers fare, 

Shake my soul, O Lord, with thunder; wring my 

heart with pity-spell; 
Make me feel in this, my refuge, all the woe of 

Israel. 

Else the trumpet of the morrow, shrilling forth 
the nobler day, 

Will reveal my soul to judgment, sere and shriv- 
elled, worn away. 



AN ANCIENT RACE 81 



ON THE OCCASION OF MR. SCHIFF'S 
BIRTHDAY, JANUARY 10th, 1917 

Israel rose from the cinders of sorrow, 
Proud in her grief; her voice was mild; 

" Men like you shape the new to-morrow," 
She said to her favorite son — and smiled. 

" Men like you are the world's salvation; 

They bless the spot wherever they be; 
For them a psean of all creation 

Sounds high praise on land or sea. 

" Giant soul! In the world's mad blindness 
You see to heal its pangs and smarts; 

You sow the seeds of human kindness. 
You reap the harvest of thankful hearts." 



82 PAVED STREETS 

THE KINGDOM OF POLAND 

An eternal wanderer speaks 

Lo! As I flee through the highways of men, on 
Time's immemorial sphere, 

Phantasms come and phantasms go, but a dom- 
inant plan is clear. 

Whenever a soul dies, shrivelled up, or a nation 

dries at the heart, 
They are each swept back by the Maker of All to 

the darkness where all things start. 

I have eaten bread to the sting of a lash and fled 

from the terror of flame; 
I have wandered and suffered, wept and prayed — 

but that way Wisdom came. 

I have learned to laugh at the tyrant's goad, the 

oppressor's bloody urge; 
As he tortured me I mocked at him and sang his 

funeral dirge. 

I knew he was wrong and could not last, that he 

could not change the plan 
Made by the Changeless Powers That Be for the 

slow ascent of Man; 



AN ANCIENT RACE 83 

For his gradual climb from chaos-depth to the 

clearness of upper air, 
For his rise to the sun of harmony from the slime 

of hate's despair. 

Nations, like pilgrim-knights, may fare on a 

quest where weaklings fail; 
When they raise the sword of truth and right, 

they find the Holy Grail. 

When they flash the brand of bigotry, when their 

hearts are false, unjust. 
Instead of the holy cup of Christ, they see but 

clouds of dust. 

There is room to spare for kingdoms on earth — 
but the cry of the blood-soaked sod 

Is not for another tyrant state, but a merciful 
kingdom of God. 

Poland! Poland! Kneel to be crowned, but rise 

prepared for the test. 
The joust of the ages in every clime for the cause 

of Man's oppressed. 

Poland! Poland! Arm for the fray, unshackled, 

God-like, free; 
Become the anointed champion of all who plod 

like me. 



84 PAVED STREETS 

Of all who creep through the weary days to the 

dreams of a sleepless night, 
Fearing the dark, but fearing more the dawn and 

the tell-tale light. 

If not — like the rest of things outworn, nations 

or creeds or men. 
Back you must go to the bottomless pit and there 

start over again. 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 



SONG OF THE VOLGA BOATMEN 

Drift, logs, drift, down the swift stream; 

Float, logs, float, beyond the Port o' Dream. 
The sunlight pats my Luba's cheeks 

And makes them glow like W'ine; 
The breeze brings fragrance once again 

From cedar, birch, and pine. 
A dirge-song died upon the wind 

That dried my Luba's tears; 
Her lips are dumb with answered prayer, 

Her eyes with banished fears. 

Batyushka Gosudar, 

Wan wanes thy setting star. 

Fallen art thou. Great White Czar. 

Turn logs, turn, through the foam and swirl; 
Glide, logs, glide, along the white whirl. 
For me my Luba sits and waits, 

For me a feast is spread; 
No more like wolf-hound lean and lone 

Must I devour my bread. 
The jingling cow-bells tinkle paeans 

Of home and joy to me; 
My heart leaps God-ward like the blaze 
That set my Russia free! 

Batyushka Gosudar, 

Wan wanes thy setting star. 

Fallen art thou, Great White Czar. 



88 PAVED STREETS 



CHANT OF LOYALTY 

Firm as the furnace heat 
Rivets the bars of steel, 
Thus to thy destiny, 

Flag, are we plighted; 
One are the hearts that beat, 
One is the throb we feel. 
One in our loyalty. 

Stand we united. 

Many a folk have brought 
Sinew and brawn to thee; 
Many an ancient wrong 

Well hast thou righted; 
Here in the land we sought, 
Stanchly, from sea to sea. 
Here, where our hearts belong. 

Stand we united. 

Ask us to pay the price, 
All that we have to give, 
Nothing shall be denied. 

All be requited; 
Ready for sacrifice. 
Ready for thee to live. 
Over the country wide, 

Stand we united. 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 89 

One under palm and pine, 

One in the prairie sun, 

One on the rock-bound shore. 

Liberty-sighted ; 
All that we have is thine. 
Thine, who hast made us one, 
True to thee evermore, 

Stand we united. 



LET THERE BE LIGHT! 

{Dedicated to the proposed Statue of Liberty that 
will be presented by the people of America to 
the people of Russia) 

Over the land that the Cossack had harried, 
Over the realm that a tyrant had wrung, 
Verst upon verst let the glad news be carried. 
League upon league let the tidings be sung. 
The voice of the people, 

Mightier far 
Than the mandate of 

Emperor, Sultan or Czar, 
Has spoken the word 

That has banished the night, 
Has thundered in majesty, 
"Let there be light!" 



90 PAVED STREETS 

Grant them, O Lord, who have drunk deep of 
sorrow. 
The cup of good-will that will toast their 
release ; 
Them who have hungered in fear, on the morrow 
Blessings of plenty and bounty of peace. 
The wings of the raven 

Had darkened their days. 
Hiding the sun 

And its comforting rays; 
But now that the bird 
Of ill-omen, in flight 
Has vanished forever. 
Let there be light! 

We who have felt with them all of their sadness. 
We who have marvelled the patience that bore 
Knut, sword and fire, the devices of madness. 
Send them a beacon from liberty's shore. 
And they who had faltered 

In darkness and dread 
May fearlessly venture 

To struggle ahead. 
The torch-flare of freedom 
Must guide them aright; 
America calls to them 
" Let there be light!" 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 91 



SONG OF THE U-BOAT 

I am blind of heart, 

I am blind of soul; 
But I creep like life 

To a destined goal. 
Through the nether sweep 
Of the crafty deep 

I forge my way, — 
No ripple above 

My course to betray. 

I am charged with death, 

I am charged with hate; 
And oh for the ship 

In my line of fate ! 
Her timbers rock 
To the thud and shock; 

She sinks below : 
My masterpiece 

Of red, red woe! 

When Death will yield 

To Love and Life, 
When the Law of God 

Will banish Strife, 
I shall haunt the sea 

Like an unpurged sin 
But the fish will stare 

At me — and grin. 



92 PAVED STREETS 

TO THE STATUE OF LIBERTY 

On the occasion of its Illumination, December 2nd 

Pityingly, O Mother of Light, 

You darted long rays 

Into our darkness, 

Calling to us as we wept 

Or as we cowered in self-abasement. 

" Come to me! " you said, 

" Poor pawns in the game of royalty, 

Come to me and learn once more 

That man is made in the image of God." 

We came, O Mother of Light ! 
From shores innumerable we came 
In droves like the beasts of the field. 
We came ignorant, blinded, crippled. 
Our tears still fresh on our cheeks. 
The lash print red on our backs. 
We came crouching in terror. 
You quickened our fear-palsied souls 
With messages of hope and courage. 
You bade us trample on our fetters, 
And stand erect before the world. 

We swear to you, O Mother of Light, 
That we, your foster-children, 
Freemen knighted by the grace of God, 
Will keep your arm forever lifted. 
Your torch forever burning! 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 93 



THE CRY OF HUMANITY 

{A reply to "The Cry of France" in The Times of 
August 19) 

" Welcome their hordes 
To glut our swords." 

Joseph I. C. Clarke. 

I am Humanity 
Calling through the ages 
To all of you, my children! 
Who are the hordes 
That glut your swords? 
Are those the guilty ones 
Whose lifeblood overruns 
The guttered fields of France? 
Hell's banner flutters wide 
As all of you advance. 
The Teuton's dogged drive. 
The Briton's bulldog pull. 
The Slav's determined trudge, 
The gallant dash of France — 
What mean they all to me. 
Bereft Humanity? 
For I must mourn you all, 
My children you who fall. 

If one who wears a crown 
Gives way to ghastly whim, 

Must millions, battered down, 
Be sacrificed to him? 



94 PAVED STREETS 

I am Humanity 
Calling through the ages 
To all of you, my children! 
Listen to your hearts 
And send your flaming darts 
Against the whole array 
Who herded you for fray! 
You need not seek for hordes 
To glut your willing swords. 
Turn plague and sword and fire, 
Turn all your pent-up ire 
Upon the few 
Who slaughter you. 
Turn hell and pest and flame 
On those who play the game, 
On those whose royal will 
Sent all of you to kill. 

I am Humanity 
Calling through the ages 
To all of you, my children ! 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 95 



MEN 

I see them in a vision. 

They are masters of death. 

I see them 

Laying mines 

To annihilate thousands; 

Sighting intrenchments 

To guide their gun play; 

Unleashing deadly gases 

Wind driven, toward the enemy. 

I see them in a vision, 

These masters of death; 

Not beasts snorting hell fire 

Are they; 

Just men — 

Strong men, brave men, 

Good men, wise men. 

All bent on achieving — death. 

I see them before me. 

They are masters of life. 

I see them 

Digging tunnels 

For the transit of thousands; 

Rearing wonder structures of steel 

To shelter their own kind; 



96 PAVED STREETS 

In their laboratories 

Enslaving air, water, earth and fire 

For the service of millions. 

I see them before me, 

These masters of life; 

Not angels shining in celestial glory 

Are they; 

Just men — 

Strong men, brave men. 

Good men, wise men. 

All bent on promoting — life. 

Men — just men. 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 97 



TO WAR BARDS 

Please note, my friend 
Of lyric trend, 
That cannon " boom " 
To "gloom" or "doom;" 
But when they " roar " 
They roar of "war;" 
That balls will "burst" 
To rhymes like "curst;" 
That men will "fall" 
When countries "call;" 
That jflowing" blood" 
Suggests a "flood;" 
That " hopes of peace " 
Will go with "cease." 

But try to sell 
ThestuflF, and — Well, 
You'll know instead 
What Sherman said. 



98 PAVED STREETS 



SEA WAIFS 

Salt fresh is the breeze from the sea; 

Brine sharp is its buoyant caress; 
It speeds the foam shoreward in glee, 
There is joy in its call, wild and free, 

" La jeunesse ! La jeunesse ! " 

"Youth," it is laughing, " I bring 

On the hollow and crest of the surge; 
And I carry the tang of the spring 
In the spume that I scatter and fling. 
Yet my heart is a dirge ! 

" For voices of children I hear 

In the boom of the oncoming waves; 

Voices that cry to me clear 

From the heart of the turbulent mere. 
From their kelp covered graves. 

Breeze of the sea! ' from the tide 

Their pitiful voices ring, 
' Take us with you for a ride, 
We are the babies who died 

Too young to know spring! ' " 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 99 



WHERE DO WE STAND? 

Where do we stand? Perhaps the answer leads 

Us back to days of old, to stubborn years 
When power over soil and men through deeds 

Of pluck was won by gallant pioneers. 
They met their doubts and perils face to face. 

The savage skulked within his wilds, but soon 
The builders, sowers, reapers took his place. 

May we fall short of Standish, Smith and 
Boone? 

Where do we stand? Injustice oversea 

Constrained our kin to rally and to arm; 
We gathered hosts to fight for liberty 

From forge and shop, from forest, field, and 
farm. 
We had our rustic leaders, Putnams, Waynes, 

A troop of daring volunteers, and one 
Who led them all through many grim campaigns. 

Has time erased the name of Washington? 

Where do we stand? In civil strife we fought 

For what we each regarded true and right ; 
And when, at last, the boon of peace was bought. 

We each repaired the breaches made in fight. 
A sorry struggle, but it left the land 

In stronger union, blood-cemented, game, 
The curse of slavery forever banned, 

A monument to Lincoln's hallowed name. 



100 PAVED STREETS 

Where do we stand? Look back upon them all. 

What stirring feelings can these names inspire! 
They key our hearts to throb at danger's call, 

They fill our veins with patriotic fire. 
How can we help but stand for dangers met, 

For rights defended — liberty, forsooth, 
For all the virtues troubled times beget? 

Our heroes teach us courage, freedom, truth ! 



DEMOS: A RHAPSODY 

{Suggested by the Russian Renaissance) 

Lo! In the welter of storms they shall hear him, 

Shaking the earth with his terrible voice; 
Lo ! In the chaos of hell they shall fear him ; 

Masters will tremble and bondmen rejoice ! 
Dumb through the cycle of numberless ages, 

Unable to falter, unable to speak, — 
At last like the beasts in their murderous rages 
Battering bars of the hindering cages, 

Demos will rouse himself . . . Demos will 
shriek ! 

Then all the little men. 
Those who had prodded him, 
Those who had mocked at him, 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 101 

Fat little men who had held him in scorn, 
Bald little men who had smugly dictated, 
Mustachioed men who had strutted and prated, 
Uniformeed men who had shouted, commanded, 
Men in black robes who had flouted and 
branded, — 

All of them hearing 

The voice of the giant. 
Obeying and fearing 
His mandate defiant, 
Dreading his gaunt, inarticulate being, — 
All of them . . . fleeing. 
Unheeding, unseeing. 
Shedding their robes and their sceptres and uni- 
forms 
Casting aside all their honors and mummeries, 
Flim-flam and flummeries 
Trappings and state. 
Downward will drop through the swift-rushing 

darkness 
Leagues and leagues . . . where eternities wait! 

And then from their caverns the millions will 
creep. 

Wan wraiths of humans 
Aroused from their sleep. 
Reeling in hunger . . . frightened, unsteady. 
Limp and unready. 



102 PAVED STREETS 

Demos will croon to them 
Just like a mother 
Soothing her little one 
Crying in sleep. 

" Gone are the creatures 
Of wars and disasters; 
Fled are your overlords 

Crowned heads and masters. 
Pick up their robes and their sceptres and uni- 
forms ; 
Gather their honors, their symbols and mum- 
meries, 

Flim-flam and flummeries. 
All that you trembled at, worn by your ' sires,' 
Pile them and kindle them ; 
Let all the fears you nursed 
Vanish in prayer with the smoke of your fires." 

" But who are you, O mysterious giant. 

Pleading in thunder? 
You who have roused us to life from the grave; 
You who have cloven the chains of the slave ; 
Who are you that you should be obeyed? 
Tell us , . . we know not . . . we're weak and 
afraid." 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 103 

"Who am I? 
By all that is broken 
Shattered and crushed, 
By all that you hope for, 
By all that you deem 
God-like and holy. 
Know you not me? 
I am the voice of you, 
I am the goal of you, 
Brawn, bones and blood of you, 
Heart, mind and soul of you . . . 
I am your dream! " 



104 PAVED STREETS 



THE LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN 

I walked through the darkling meadows 

In the valley; 

Slow-stepping, head bowed, I plodded on, 

Unmindful of the shadows 

That kept snuffing out the last glimmerings of day, 

Leaving on earth only night, 

Only night. 

There was night within me, too, 

I seemed to see millions of imploring hands 

Raised high in prayer; 

" Our backs are heavy laden, O Lord, 

Our strength is spent; 

In Thy infinite mercy have pity on us, 

Thy children! " 

I seemed to see anguish limned on faces 

Too rigid-set for tears. 

And as I walked through the darkling meadows 

In the valley. 

There was night in me, too. 

Then I looked up at the scarred mountain side 
Looming high above me; 
And the giant cliffs were silhouetted 
Athwart the waning daylight. 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 105 

This, thought I, is reality. 
Against it Man pounds his poor, soft fists; 
And up to its top he looks for light; 
But there is no light. 

As I mused thus, 

From the very peak 

A ray of friendly lamplight 

Filtered through the darkness. 

It came from the window of a little shack 

On the mountain side 

And sought me out 

Depressed and sore with doubt 

As I wandered in the valley below. 

Perhaps, thought I, that is God's way. 

His will remains inscrutable 

Though our woes be many; 

But somewhere from His pinnacle 

He sends down a gleam of hope 

To us, who struggle on. 

In the darkness of the world valley 

As we pass from one infinity 

To the other. 



106 PAVED STREETS 



CALIBAN TO THE WAR-GOD 

One eye that peeps above the ocean plane, 
My periscope, to sight a victim nigh; 

And then, a steady crawhng on; in vain 
She flies ahead; I mark her; she must die. 

I chuckle when I see those merchant hulks 
Loom up to such dimensions. Little me 

Is big enough for them; their clumsy bulks 
Will soon be rotting deep within the sea. 

A funny thing occurred the other day; 

I crushed a liner's bow; she dropped like stone 
And on her decks you should have seen the way 

Those mortals paled; I laughed to hear them 
groan. 

I did it all, my master, just for you. 

A trifle ! Caliban will play his part 
To suit your will, augustness, sparing few 

For, like yourself, your servant has no heart. 



THE GREAT STRUGGLE 107 

NOCTURNE 

" Watcher in the trenches, 

How wears the night? " 
"Nothing is seen in the midnight sky- 
But the trail of the death rockets flashing by: 

So wears the night." 

" Watcher in the trenches. 

How wears the night? " 
" A form in the starlight gasping its last, 
The tail of a meteor shimmering past : 

So wears the night." 

" Watcher in the trenches, 

How wears the night? " 
" Darkness, darkness, then afar 
The sudden glare of a man-made star: 

So wears the night." 

" Watcher in the trenches. 

How wears the night? " 
" Dawn flares up in the bloody east. 
The vultures swoop to a carrion feast : 

So wears the night." 

" Dreamer in the tower. 

How will it end? " 
"The mists are shrouding a red, red sun, 
Humans are blind and only One 

May know the end." 



Seave R -HowlandPUSS 

271 Franklin St. 

'BOSTOM 



